There is something much crueler than fate.
It is the men, who think they control it. It is the men, who dabble in fate as if it is a currency, or a prize. Lyr does not believe in fate. No, and if he could hear her sympathy for it he might scoff. For Lyr, everything is taken or given; everything is hard-won or left. There are no true gods—only mortals manifested as something larger than themselves, greater both in power and tragedy—and there is no true destiny.
Only themselves. Their blood. Their strength.
If something is taken, it is their own damn fault.
But in that instance, Lyr is not thinking of fate; he is thinking of the taking, the claiming, how strength is the only currency in the world that matters. His father had been weak; it is the reason Capella had died.
It is the reason now he looks at the palomino girl with bright eyes and thinks, nothing will happen to her. This ghost of a memory. This hollow reflection of the one he loved.
Thank you for joining me, Lyr. I have been exploring, though the capitol is quite overwhelming. I prefer staying a little more seaside. Or in the hospital, healing when I can.
The humble admission endears her to him more than she could ever know. Lyr smiles. “Y-you are a h-healer?” The stutter comes on, most often, when he is overwrought with emotion—the mere mention of Terrastella’s hospital reminds him of the first time he had ever come to Terrastella alone, begging for his sister’s cure.
What are you yourself?
The question jars him, momentarily.
A son. A brother. A scholar. A soldier. A poet.
“If you ever need a tour, E-Elena, let me know. I have lived her long enough to know the place. B-but be weary of the sea—Terrastella is renowned for it’s kelpies.” Lyr thinks of his mother, not knowing the future implications the comment could have for Elena.
It doesn’t have to be, you know. A pleasure that is. It can hurt.
Lyr had thought their attention on that side of the conversation had finished itself. He looks away from her, his expression tight with unshared pain. He glances out again, toward the setting sun, and keeps his eyes there until the light of it stings.
Instead of answering, he diverts. “And what hurt have you felt, Elena?” It is clear she knows some kind of pain; the magnitude of it, to Lyr, is still unclear. Unlike her, Lyr cannot muster the strength of a smile. He rarely does.
"Speech" || @
when i leave i'm taking all the atlases
everyone who touches me walks away unharmed and singing.
